Soon there are words:
first a sweeping hush,
a low hum.
Then the revving of neighbors
and their chatty sportscars.

The emissions enter the brain.
Then the atmosphere.
Whatever that is
is not what I am looking for.

James Croal Jackson lives for art, adventure, whiskey, and music. A few of his poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Bitter Oleander, Glassworks, and Oxford Magazine. He was born in Akron, Ohio but currently lives in Los Angeles. Find more of his work at jimjakk.com.